CHAPTER TWELVE ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER by B. A. Linhares

First week as a Senior. 

 

 

A bright flash startles me out of a deep sleep. My eyes fly open and I instantly recall my dream. I was yelling “Stop” at a taxi. I wanted to run down our street after it but Josh was (physically) holding me back. It all seemed so real. That's all I remember. I’m on my side, rolled up in a tight ball. I sit up and blink a couple of times letting my eyes adjust to the dark. I hardly remember getting into bed. The mattress under me feels thin. I’m not in bed. I'm in my window seat. How did I end up here… did I sleepwalk? I haven’t done that in a while. No dummy, you fell asleep in the window seat. Your never went to bed.

Ah.

More flashes light up my room, followed by loud rumbles. Our old house shudders. I twist around, squinting at the clock on my dresser. It’s only 3:57. My cell, texts and papers are scattered on the floor.

“Dammit! I never called Josh or did my homework!”

I should just get up and do it now. I stand up swaying on my feet. My skin is clammy and my teeth are chattering uncontrollably. I touch my face and a list of flu symptoms flutter through my mind: sore throat, body aches, fever. My hand goes to the scar near my left temple and I wince. When did it start hurting? A few weeks ago. Like most aches and pains, I figure it will go away sooner or later. Grimacing, I press the area and feel pain under the scar. I sit back down and squeezing my eyes shut, taking slow deep breaths trying to feel better. A big boom outside and the window behind me rattles in its wooden frame. I open my eyes and scoot closer peering out at the night. There’s a major storm going on out there. Dark heavy clouds move across a purple sky and a beautiful full moon comes into view. The sight reminds me of how much I will miss having a boyfriend. Sign.

Sean Palmer starts running around in my head.

All at once, the clouds burst. The wind kick up and sheets of rain smack the side of the house like wet towels. Another bolt of lightening startles me and briefly illuminates the rain-streak window pane. The Oak tree branches dancing in the wind look like long bony arms. What will happen when I see Sean tomorrow? What will we say to each other. Impending doom rises in the pit of my stomach. On the other hand, his message sounded like he wants me back.

Question is––can I forgive him? Uh. No way.

Well maybe.

Why am I so mentally weak?

Sean doesn’t respect my feelings.

Then why don’t you just break up with him already?

Because I hate to fail at anything.

I sit back against the wall and force myself to focus on the good things about Sean Palmer. Let's see, he’s smart, a skilled swimmer, and very haut. But he wants a girlfriend that'll put out.

Oh yeah. I was trying to forget that part.

I stare at the brilliant lightning flashes in the night sky that make my room looks like a dance club with strobe lights. Then a roll of thunder shakes the walls and I raise my hand to steady the framed photographs of me and Mom in our ski outfits standing in the snow outside the Alpine Chalet Resort. Behind us are the breathtaking Austrian Alps. After we got home, I hung them on the inside wall of my dormer window so I could see her everyday. I stare through the shadows at the photos remembering our ski vacations as if they were yesterday.

God, why did it have to end so horribly?

I take down the photograph Pop took of me attempting the intermediate slopes and recall my accident. First time out, I veered off course and hit the side of my head on a stump buried in the snow. Hence the scar on my temple. I’d spent the morning on the bunny slopes and I guess I thought I was all bad. I begged Pop to let ski the next level—bad idea. At least Pop was the only one who saw me wipe out. Mom skied with us earlier but she had to leave to do some work. Even though I wiped out, I wish she could’ve seen me try the harder slopes for the first time. I always felt envious of my friends who had mothers that were there for them. Resentment floods through me and I think if only she were alive I would tell her that I forgive her for not being there. That I understand and need her. I was a bad daughter for thinking only about my needs. Thank goodness God forgives.

The branches scrape the window pane like sharp fingernails on a chalkboard pulling me out of my funky mood. I look out and see that the storm is dying down a little. A few stars peak out between the fat purple clouds. I glance at the photo of Mom and me again, and then fold my hands and gaze up at the heavens.

“Dear God, tell me why Mom had to die. And if she isn't dead, send me a sign...”

Two tiny twinkling stars appear from behind the clouds. It's the stars Mom named after us when I was a little girl. Blinking back hot tears, I drop my hands and bite down on my lip. I feel Mom’s soft yellow throw lying next to me. I pick it up and hold it up to my face. I picture the bottle of Calvin Cline Eternity Pop bought for her birthday that he keeps on his nightstand—it was one of the many Christmas and birthday presents she never opened last year. I know that he sprays it on his pillow to remember her. I can smell it when I do the laundry.

I stare at the throw Mom weaved with her own hands. Pop said she carried it around like the Peanuts character, Linus Van Pelt. She'd say, ‘yes, it's to soak up fears and frustrations!’ It occurs to me that all the signs point to finding out what happened to Mom. Okay. First I need to find out who my mother really was. She refused to tell me anything about her past so I’ll just have to weave together what threads I have. I just hope Josh and Officer O’Dell will help me figure out how to get more information because I don’t have much to go on.

Bone tired, I force my self to sit there a while longer and think about when Pop and I returned from sunrise skiing. It was about noon. As planned, we waited for Mom in the resort’s restaurant off the massive lobby. She never showed. Not unusual. We figured she was too busy so we ate without her. Pop wanted to have our skis serviced so I went to our suite to see what was up with Mom. I found the yellow throw on the floor just inside the door. I must’ve stuffed it into my backpack thinking what…?

Odd. I don’t know why I put it in my backpack.

So much occurred afterward, I barely remember even picking it up. But I must’ve. It was in my backpack. Later on, after the crime scene people left the hotel, Agent Werthoust came and gave us the bad news. I don’t know what time it was. It had to be after midnight. We were told to pack and they drove us to the airport. After that, I completely forgot about the blanket in my old backpack…until yesterday when I switched backpacks. Why didn’t I use it for school? I couldn’t find it because it was buried in my messy closet.

Ah. Good thing I cleaned my room.

I fold the yellow blanket on my lap thinking I shouldn't complain about Mom not being around, Pop’s always been here for me. Poor Pop, he gave up his career as a famous chef to take care of me. It must have been painful having his wife gone most of the time. And now he’s a widower. I would never let my spouse work so much that I never saw them. Don’t worry, you may be single your whole life. Yeah. Nothing wrong with that. Beats fighting all the time.

I place Mom’s throw in the corner and dry my eyes on my sleeve. I glace over at the cluster of photographs on my book shelves. I get up and go over to look at them closer. The only other photograph I have in my possession of Mom and me is the one of us standing in front of the Washington Zoo on my sixth birthday. Of course there are others. Along the wall next to the stairs and in the family albums, but none of them are of just her and I—only these three. Mom always said she hated having her picture taken. I wonder why…she was so beautiful.

I go over and stoop over to gather my stuff on the floor. My head throbs painfully. Leave it, I need to go back to sleep. One more hour of then I’ll get up and do my homework. I set the alarm then crawl under the covers and close my eyes, but sleep won’t come.

I picture Mom on Christmas Eve morning. It was about 5 A.M. and Pop and I were just leaving to go sunrise skiing. She looked so pretty nestled in the yellow throw, stretched out in the living room on the couch, computer balanced on her lap, papers lay all around her. Behind her, the snow covered Alps through the big picture window. Mom said she had to stay behind to work—as usual. That was the last time we physically saw her because of some stupid international law. The N.S.A. (National Security Agency) showed Pop a signed paper that said they had to seal her casket to fly her home. There would be no open casket either. Needless to say this didn’t sit well with Pop. It’s hard to have closure when you don’t get to say goodbye.

Without warning, a flood of tears lets lose. I turn over and bury my face in my pillow to smother my sobs. For a little while, I wallow in self-pity. Then in my haze of resentment, I realize the cold hard truth. I’m seventeen now, a bona fide woman. In some countries I would be considered an adult. And as much as I hate to admit it—Sean is right—it’s time to get over her death and get on with my life. I have to stop living in the past.

I still think Sean is a totally shit for being so mean and pushy.

I reach over and grab a handful of tissues out of the box next to my bed, and blow my nose. Okay…this is a big step for me. I’ve invested too much time and energy grieving about the past. I have my future to think about now, but not right now. Right now I need rest or I'm going to be a zombie at school. I turn on my side and fall fast asleep.